


Starting at the End

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could move to college with you.”<br/>Stiles smiles and says, “Yeah?”<br/>They’ve been more or less dating for a little over two years. Stiles keeps saying how much he hates sleeping alone these days; Derek feels jittery and uncomfortable whenever Stiles isn’t around. It seems like a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting at the End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "i'd really like to read some sterek focusing on their age difference. like, stiles's 20 and derek's almost 30 and they want different things and all that." (Original prompt fill can be found [here](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/post/57988133165/this-is-woefully-unbetaed-and-also-kind-of-all).)

The summer before starting college, Stiles goes on a month-long road trip with Scott. Derek misses him achingly even though Stiles sends lots of pictures and calls every few days. He says, “I love you,” at the end of each conversation. Derek replies, “Yeah,” or “I know” every time, in response to which Stiles laughs softly before hanging up. Every time Derek vows to say it back at the end of the next call. Every time he doesn’t.

Instead he waits for Stiles’ return, invites him over for dinner like he’s done so many times during the gap year Stiles spent working a nine-to-five clerical job at the BHPD, and pushes him down on the couch to suck him off after dessert. He kisses the taste of tiramisu out of Stiles’ mouth and then says, “I could move to college with you.”

Stiles smiles and says, “Yeah?”

They’ve been more or less dating for a little over two years. Stiles keeps saying how much he hates sleeping alone these days; Derek feels jittery and uncomfortable whenever Stiles isn’t around. It seems like a good idea.

 

* * *

 

It’s a fifteen-minute commute from their apartment to the university. It takes Derek fifty minutes to get to the Beacon Hills Preserve. He doesn’t mind; he likes to drive, likes being a part-time park ranger too much to give it up and find something else to do. He’s not all that good with change, anyway.

“You could go work at the Starbucks on campus,” Stiles jokes after a few weeks, when their lives are starting to settle into this new routine. (Derek likes it; likes waking up to Stiles’ body heat every morning, the quiet drive to Beacon Hills, coming home to their combined scent and the warm anchoring sound of Stiles’ heartbeat. Change can be good sometimes.) “I hear they’ve got a vacancy.” He’s drawing patterns onto Derek’s stomach with one fingertip.

“I’d rather die,” Derek says drily.

Stiles snorts. “You know what, I think I might actually hand in your resume. Just for shits and giggles. The job interview alone should be comedy gold.”

“They’ll never find your body,” Derek warns, nosing at Stiles’ neck. He smells of sweat and sex and contentedness. “I’ve got my methods.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Stiles says. His hand slides farther down to where Derek’s dick is stirring. “Think you’ll be able to come again within now and five minutes? I still need to shower and I’ve got class in half an hour.”

 

Stiles applies for the job instead. The Starbucks green looks good on him. A hint of ground coffee beans, warm milk and syrup weaves its way into his scent. He works two afternoons a week plus every other Saturday. When he gets back from his afternoon shifts he’s thrumming with caffeine and stories: this customer did that, and then some guy came in and said— and by the way, Derek, seriously, you’ve got to try this new drink I came up with, I know you don’t like overly sugary stuff but—

Derek usually just feeds him a glass of water and then guides him to the bed ( _their_ bed), humming and nodding at Stiles’ disjointed account of his day as he undresses them both.

Most of the time they can’t be bothered with the actual fucking part. It takes a lot of effort and Stiles especially worries about hygiene, even though – as Derek has pointed out – he’s not the one with werewolf senses in this relationship. They tend to stick with handjobs and blowjobs and creative variations thereof, except on Saturdays.

On Saturdays Stiles works ten-hour shifts and gets home after dinnertime, exhausted and restlessly horny. Derek joins him in the shower more often than not. He washes Stiles and starts to open him up gently, slowly, before kneeling down and rimming him until Derek has to hold the back of Stiles’ knees to keep them from buckling.

Stiles is too tired to want to ride Derek by the time they get to the bedroom (“just fuck me, goddamnit”). Derek positions him on his stomach atop the softest pillows they own and thrusts into him, forearms braced on either side of Stiles’ head. He whispers into the sweaty sweet-smelling curve of Stiles’ neck ( _feel so good –_ _look so good like this – you’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you, thinking about me inside you all day – fucking you like this – fuck, Stiles_ ).

On Saturdays they don’t need to use a condom to slick the way; on Saturdays Derek gets to blow his load into Stiles and drag his fingers through the mess of lube and come afterward, to watch the languid twitches of Stiles’ overstimulated body in response to his touch.

“Love you,” Stiles murmurs quietly, half-petting Derek’s chest. Derek kisses him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends most of his first midterm week at the kitchen table, surrounded by notecards and textbooks and the little crescent moons of his bitten-off fingernails. He gets agitated, hyper-focused. His hair is a mess for fourteen days straight.

“I just want to do well,” Stiles tells Derek in bed the night before an exam. “Y’know?”

“I know,” Derek says, thumbing at Stiles’ hipbone. “You will.”

Stiles does. He gets all A’s on his exams, an A+ for his paper. He’s elated; he even calls his dad to tell him.

“We should go celebrate tonight,” Derek says after Stiles hangs up. “Catch a movie, or—”

Stiles’ face falls. “Actually, there’s a party I was gonna go to tonight— I mean, you can come too, of course, it’s just…” He tugs at a thread on his jeans. “I kinda missed a lot of parties, uh, at the start of the semester.” His cheeks flush ever so slightly. He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I was just so excited about us. Us living together. So I kind of—”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “It’s fine. You don’t have to— you should go.”

“You can come if you want to,” Stiles repeats. “You should, I mean, Scott will be there, and Allison…”

Derek shakes his head. “You’re in college,” he says firmly. “Go enjoy it.”

 

Derek wakes up nauseous and disoriented. He presses a hand to his stomach, listens. Stiles is stumbling through the living room. His heartbeat sounds sluggish with alcohol.

The bedroom door creaks open.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, kicking off his shoes. “Did I wake you up?”

It’s too much, the smell of stale beer wafting into the room. Derek breathes through his mouth and keeps his eyes closed.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers again as he crawls into bed. “Derek?”

Derek stays quiet.

Stiles falls asleep soon enough. Derek doesn’t. After twenty minutes he decides to give up; he has to be up for work an hour from now anyway.

Somewhere around noon he gets a text from Stiles. _So hungover. Fuck. Hope I didn’t wake you up. X_

Derek replies, _Did you have fun?_ and tries to remember that Stiles is twenty. He’s a freshman. He’s human. He’s supposed to be doing these things. He was supposed to start doing them a lot earlier, actually, and Derek is the only reason he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Stiles starts going to more parties, partly at Derek’s insistence. He starts hanging out with people from his classes, making new friends. Derek can’t keep up with all their names. A handful of them come over for dinner one evening; Derek cooks but keeps to himself, sipping from a glass of wine as their guests drink beer and talk animatedly in the living room. Groups of people have never been Derek’s thing. Stiles is loving it, though, eyes bright, the sound of his laughter drowning out everyone else’s, and that’s what matters.

 

* * *

 

Derek gets home from work to find Stiles still asleep.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and tries not to panic. “Hey,” he says, stroking the hair off Stiles’ forehead. “Stiles. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Stiles blinks at him groggily. “Huh?” he says, voice rough. “What time is it?”

Derek checks his watch. “It’s two o’clock.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Good.” Derek’s confusion must be showing on his face, because Stiles explains, “I’ve got class at three. I thought I might’ve slept through my alarm.”

“Slept through your— it’s _two o’clock_ ,” Derek says, incredulous.

Stiles shrugs and then smirks, reaching for the V of Derek’s work pants. “I’ve got half an hour.”

“I need to shower,” Derek says. Stiles does an intricate eyebrow wiggle and continues to rub him through his pants. Derek catches his hand, stops him. “Seriously, I’m all gross from the preserve.”

He takes his time in the bathroom. When he’s done, Stiles is gone already.

 

* * *

 

“So I’ve been thinking I should quit my job,” Stiles says. He’s just gotten home from his shift; they hurriedly jerked each other off on the couch before having dinner. Derek made lasagna.

Derek swallows his bite and asks, “Why?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kind of a lot, balancing college and college life and you and the job and everything. Plus, it’s not like I really need the money. I mean, I don’t work that many hours anyway, I’ve got my scholarship and my savings, and we’re splitting the rent, so…”

Derek tries to form a useful reply, but he gets stuck on— “Am I not part of your ‘college life’, then?” he says, trying and failing to keep the quote marks from his voice, to keep from sounding bitter.

Stiles frowns at him. “What the— that’s not what I said at _all_ , and also not the point.”

He’s right. Derek grits his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Stiles’ face softens. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve phrased it differently. I—”

“It’s okay,” Derek says. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get back to the point.”

 

* * *

 

“What do you want to eat tonight?” Derek asks.

Stiles pulls a face. “Dude, it’s, like, _noon_. I really can’t think about that right now,” he says. “Maybe just pizza or whatever?”

The hint of ground coffee beans, warm milk and syrup has long faded from Stiles’ scent.

Derek says, “Okay, sure.”

Pizza or whatever.

 

* * *

 

Derek doesn’t mean to blow up. It’s just that Stiles came home at five, reeking of lust and alcohol and cigarette smoke, and now— it’s stupid, not to mention _childish_ , but when Derek checked his phone during breakfast he came across a Facebook picture Stiles had been tagged in. It was taken last night, in some club, obviously. Derek recognizes Scott and Allison. There’s someone else in the photo, though, a good-looking guy in his early twenties with dimples and a wide smile, wrapped up in Stiles’ arms like—

Like he fucking _belongs_ there.

Derek stalks into the bedroom and throws his phone down on the bed. “Who’s this?”

Stiles groans, folds his arms across his face. “Derek, what the fuck,” he grumbles. “Let me sleep.”

“Who. Is. This,” Derek says, pointing at his phone.

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. He grabs Derek’s phone, frowns at it. “I don’t get it.”

“Stiles, I swear to God—”

“Do you mean Danny?” Stiles asks, squinting at the screen and then at Derek. “Is this— why are you so mad?” He blinks a few times. “Do you…” His face crumbles. “Derek, you don’t think I’m _cheating on you_ , do you?” His voice cracks on the ‘do you’. It punches a hole in Derek’s chest.

“What am I supposed to think?” he says, ignoring the feeling.

“What are you— Derek, I’m _fucking crazy about you_.” Stiles jumps out of bed; he’s in his boxers, his treasure trail a sick distraction from this even sicker conversation. Derek tears his eyes away.

Stiles is saying, “I’m fucking crazy about you, you fucking _asshole_ , and I can’t believe you’d— I can’t believe you would—” He’s blinking back tears now. “You asshole,” he says, again. There’s no venom behind it this time.

Derek reaches for him. He fully expects Stiles to swat his hand away, but the opposite happens. Stiles steps forward, rushes into his arms. He’s warm, trembling. “What the hell happened to us,” he says, more statement than question.

“I don’t know,” Derek murmurs into his hair.

“No, you do know,” Stiles says. “Say it.”

He’s crying; Derek can smell the salt of his tears.

Derek says, “No.”

“Derek, say it.”

“No.”

“Why won’t you fucking say it?” Stiles says, pushing away from him to meet his eyes. “Why don’t you ever fucking say anything? Why do you bottle up _everything_ to a point where I don’t even know what you’re thinking anymore, what you want anymore?”

“I—”

“Say it, Derek! I’m ruining this. _I_ ’m ruining us.”

“Stiles—”

“I’m the one who keeps showing up late, who wants to have it all, who—”

“Stiles!”

Stiles stops.

“You _should_ have it all,” Derek tells him. “You’re twenty. You’re in college.” _You’re human_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. “You should have it all,” he repeats. “You deserve to have it all.”

Stiles wipes his sleeve across his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why is this so difficult for you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Derek lies.

“ _Talking to me_ ,” Stiles says, exasperated. “Why— you trust me, right?”

Derek nods. “Yeah,” he says.

“And you love me,” Stiles states.

Derek says, “Yeah.”

“Then what’s so difficult about it? Just— you should be able to tell me when I’m being an ass, tell me when you want me to stay home. You should be able to do that. That’s— isn’t that what being in a relationship is about?”

Derek waits a beat, then says, “Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Stiles snorts wetly. It should be disgusting but it’s not. It’s really not. “Neither do I,” he says. “Wow. Look at us. We make such a good pair.”

Derek reaches for him again. “We do, though,” he says, touching Stiles’ side.

Stiles wraps a hand around his wrist. “I love you,” he says. “I— I know that’s not necessarily enough but it’s got to be a good starting point. I mean. Right?”

He’s right.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I think it must be.”

Stiles looks up at him with big dark eyes. He’s smiling wanly.

 _Why won’t you fucking say it?_ echoes through Derek’s mind. He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and says, “I love you too, you know.”

Going by Stiles’ smile, it’s as good a starting point as any.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


End file.
